intramuralist ™

So on Tuesday (follow my train of thought here, as we’ll eventually make our point)…
With minimal sleep and a totally swamped, exhausting day before, I awoke with two of my two and half bathrooms unusable. With my spouse out of town and carpet layers home instead for a substantial, two day project, the furniture in the soon-to-be carpeted rooms was temporarily stacked in the bathrooms. Note that when stacked from floor to ceiling, brushing one’s teeth becomes unviable and taking a shower, out of the question.

With the carpet crew and the paint crew both working steadfastly on this day — albeit in separate rooms — the only indoor area absent of contractors was a booth in my kitchen. Don’t get me wrong. I love my booth; but it was the only place in my entire home in which I could peacefully sit.

Strike that peacefully part… I knew there would be two days of this, overlapping the crews for some desired home improvements, and so on the previous day, I took my one year old pup to my favorite “doggie daycare,” so the noise of the stripping and pounding would not be cause for her to stir; however, Tuesdays are for small dogs only; my pup weighs 53 lbs.

So on Tuesday, my faithful Yogi stayed right where she typically does — by my side — which now included barking and barking and even more barking due the pounding of the carpet layers, who were not yet, her known friends.

I suppose I could have let her outside; granted, it had rained this morning.

At one point, the barking got the best of her. She took off all a sudden, slamming my left hand against a metal table. It hurt so much, tears immediately flowed. While I no longer think it’s broken, it remains swollen and available only for minimal use.

My son then called — couldn’t find his written excuse for the orthodontist. I had to then call both the school and the ortho.

“Time for lunch,” I thought. “I’ll sit down and find some comfort food.” Yet before taking my very first bite, I walked out to the garage to throw something away… until… when what to my wondering eyes should appear? My car, that was sitting in the garage all night, had a flat tire.

Geesh.

I admit: when initially considering penning a relevant post, my thoughts pretty much paralleled “Alexander and the Terrible, Horrible, No Good, Very Bad Day.” But somewhere amidst the pondering, I realized if I focused on what truly seemed a terrible, horrible, no good, very bad day, I would miss any blessing.

I’ve seen a few blog articles swirling around cyberspace lately talking about use of the word “blessing” — or “blessed.” And mostly what I’ve seen has been an ardent admonition to quit using the word.

I disagree. We shouldn’t stop saying the word; we should instead start using it correctly.

Being “blessed” is not a matter of material fortune.
Being “blessed” is not a matter of prosperity, victory, or success.
Being “blessed” is not a matter of circumstance.

Even though my Tuesday was indeed a terrible, horrible, no good, very bad day, I was still blessed…

I was blessed being able to interact and communicate with the ethnically diverse contractors in my home that day.
I was blessed that they would allow me to make them dinner, thankful for them using their skill and expertise in an area that I had none.
I was blessed by the kindness of the Good Samaritan who came to my house to fix the tire.
I was blessed by the prayers of friends who knew I was struggling.
And I was blessed by that special needs son, who told me before he left for school that day, “It’s ok, Mom. God’s got it all under control.”

Thank God my Tuesday didn’t keep me from seeing the blessing.

Respectfully…
AR

As one who intends to always be an active student — recognizing there will forever be more to learn — I find myself consistently amazed at the truth embedded in stories of faith. I also find that for me, when I’m immediately rejecting of faith, sometimes that’s more about me and my own hangups than it is about any embodiment of truth.

One of the stories that continually challenges my core thinking is the infamous idea of “defining one’s neighbor.” Allow me to briefly share the scenario:

Just then a religion scholar stood up with a question to test Jesus. “Teacher, what do I need to do to get eternal life?”

He answered, “What’s written in God’s Law? How do you interpret it?”

He said, “That you love the Lord your God with all your passion and prayer and muscle and intelligence—and that you love your neighbor as well as you do yourself.”

“Good answer!” said Jesus. “Do it and you’ll live.”

Looking for a loophole, he asked, “And just how would you define ‘neighbor’?”

Jesus answered by telling a story. “There was once a man traveling from Jerusalem to Jericho. On the way he was attacked by robbers. They took his clothes, beat him up, and went off leaving him half-dead. Luckily, a priest was on his way down the same road, but when he saw him he angled across to the other side. Then a Levite religious man showed up; he also avoided the injured man.

“A Samaritan traveling the road came on him. When he saw the man’s condition, his heart went out to him. He gave him first aid, disinfecting and bandaging his wounds. Then he lifted him onto his donkey, led him to an inn, and made him comfortable. In the morning he took out two silver coins and gave them to the innkeeper, saying, ‘Take good care of him. If it costs any more, put it on my bill—I’ll pay you on my way back.’

“What do you think? Which of the three became a neighbor to the man attacked by robbers?”

“The one who treated him kindly,” the religion scholar responded.

Jesus said, “Go and do the same.”

The part of the story that challenges me is the question of who actually is my neighbor (… well… and, actually, the part about treating him kindly and going out and doing the same…).

But I think about that… “Who’s my neighbor?” Who are we called to be kind to that we struggle with — a question all active students must ask, regardless of adherence to any faith.

Am I kind to the person who looks differently than me?
Am I kind to the person who lives differently than me?
Am I kind to the person who believes differently than me?
Am I kind to the person who behaves differently than me?
Am I kind to the person who votes differently than me?

Am I kind to my neighbor? Or am I intentionally justifying withholding kindness from some?

The reason I find the above teaching so continually challenging, lies in the reality that I am not always kind. Sometimes I justify withholding kindness and respect because of differences in how others look, live, believe, behave, and vote.

Looks like remaining an active student is a wise choice after all.

Respectfully…
AR

It is no secret that the Intramuralist loves the question mark. It’s the only punctuation piece that invites an answer (… and we wonder why we keep conversationally shutting down one another…).

With a search spanning the pages of Facebook, Forbes, Readers’ Digest, and my own, etc. — recognizing that some of life’s questions are oft related to the thrill of victory or the agony of defeat — I found myself pondering the following…

… especially in regard to the current socio-political climate that is less than conversational… less than respectful… less than inviting… less than good…

(… yes… less than good…)

1. What are the questions we each must answer?
2. What am I pretending not to know?
3. What are my values and am I being true to them?
4. What — or who — am I living for?
5. In what ways am I being perceived, that I’m not aware of?
6. In what ways am I being deceived, that I’m not aware of?
7. Do I honor the authorities in my life? Am I actually willing to acknowledge authority?
8. Where are my blindspots?
9. What is wrong with the world?
10. How can what’s wrong be made right?
11. Is money the root of all evil?
12. What is the definition of evil?
13. Where am I less than patient?
14. Where am I withholding grace? From whom am I withholding grace?
15. What don’t I know, that I don’t know?
16. Would I be focusing on the same things today if I knew I was dying tomorrow?
17. How would my role models act and carry themselves?
18. Who is God and what does he ask of me?
19. Is there anything within my control that I need to change today?
20. Where have I been unkind?
21. Where have I been discriminatory?
22. Where have I been awful to the person who doesn’t think like me?
23. Who has the right — and the ability — to judge?
24. Where am I being judgmental? … and…
25. What did I learn today?

(… hopefully something…)

Respectfully…
AR

[This is a tough day for the Intramuralist. But this post originally published in January of 2016 makes me feel a little better, as it’s one of my all time favorites. I apologize for the repeat; however, some stories are worth sharing far more than once…]

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A little less than a year ago, I had one of the best worst weeks of my life… as nothing prepares you for the passing of a loved one. Nothing. The only thing that makes the unbearable pain bearable is a faith that is grounded in wisdom and hope — and speaks of something greater than the circumstances at hand.

My younger sister passed away early that Monday morning. My family and I had long planned to fly to NYC on Thursday, as my teenage son and his talented show choir were set to dance on the prestigious, Lincoln Center stage on Friday. Hence, the celebration of Nicole’s life was moved to Sunday, which meant much travel (and even more emotion) packed into a few short days.

Unfortunately that Thursday morning, the undesired occurred again; in our midwest city of often sporadic weather, we were experiencing a blizzard-like storm that included over 9” of snow. Perhaps minor for our friends in Boston and Colorado Springs, 9” can be paralyzing in Cincinnati.

With the storm extending across the entire East coast, flights were being cancelled by the minute; one by one, we would hear disheartening news of another show choir family unable to make this once-in-a-lifetime trip. For some odd reason, our morning flight took off, relatively on time.

Save for my grieving heart, the flight itself was fairly smooth — that is, until we approached LaGuardia. We were immediately placed into an hour long holding pattern, as the airport had closed in order to plow the runways. Unbeknownst to us at the time, after that hour, the airport had actually reopened, but the first Delta flight attempting to land skidded right off the runway, crashed through a fence, and came to rest with the plane’s nose extending out over the adjacent bay of water. Thank God no life-threatening injuries occurred.

Needless to say, our Delta flight was then told the airport was closed. With the storm intensifying and more airports closing, we wondered if they would return us home. After more delay, we were told we would be landing at Bradley International — although most of us knew not where that was.

Once landed (in Hartford, CT, no less), we found ourselves in a sea of stranded others… so many questions and confusion. Airline reps attempted to be clear; maybe busses would come; maybe they could get us to our desired destination sometime today. There were too many “maybes.”

Yet there amidst the hundreds stranded, we were given a blessed gift. Three other show choir families were experiencing the same flight and plight: two sets of parents, one set of grandparents. We recognized one another, but previous to this moment, I did not know them well. We huddled, put our minds together, assessing our options.

Deciding to take things into our own hands, we walked and talked. As a group, we shared all this unexpected, significant emotion… the challenge of being diverted… the fear of being stuck… the concern for our friends traveling alternate routes… the empathy for our friends no longer able to come… and the worry for our kids, who were separately en route. There was so much deep, dichotomous emotion — almost too much to handle.

“Too much to handle” for me was all this on top of what had happened earlier in my week. Thus, thrust together in Connecticut — feeling simultaneously totally overwhelmed and profoundly grateful — I couldn’t help but share the more prevalent feelings permeating my heart, that which happened before we ever took off. The way those men and women then reacted to the news of my sister’s death was beautiful… the tears in the women’s eyes… the immediate hugs… the questions, the sincerity, and the genuine concern… They loved this then semi-stranger in a way that was meaningful, authentic, and true. Any differences did not matter. They became, as I like to say, my best friends for a day.

Several hours later, we finally made it to Manhattan. The time included multiple phone calls, prayers, selfies in the abandoned baggage claim area, a drink in the pub, and then a two/three hour, at-times-treacherous but fun-filled van ride before pulling into Times Square near 5:30 p.m. As we each exited the van, saying “see you tomorrow,” we hugged one another, unspeakably aware of all the emotion the day entailed. Those friends will always be uniquely, deeply dear to me — what a beautiful role they serve… my “best friends for a day.”

Respectfully… with peace, joy… tears, too…
AR